


Instead of Paper

by Cur_Non



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: Alex accidentally gives John a tattoo, John likes a little pain, M/M, Mostly Pwp, bit of kink, over-the-pants stuff, sex and quills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 02:26:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5988949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cur_Non/pseuds/Cur_Non
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Hamilton accidentally gives Laurens a tattoo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instead of Paper

That summer was a long one. Hamilton was busy writing, jacket off because of the heat, sweat still dotting his brow because he was focusing on the page, trying to get as much done as he could before Laurens came back, because Laurens was a distraction he couldn’t afford.

 

“Where did you go, anyway?”

“I was helping them cut windows in some of the cabins further down. They hardly kept us warm enough in winter and now they’re too hot for summer.” He put his hat on the crude side table. “I’m not even sure why I bothered bringing that,” he said, sitting hard on the bed. “It’s not much use when sawing logs.”

“You’re a stickler for obligation and duty, John.”

Laurens poured himself a bit of brandy. “And you?”

“I’m nearly done.”

“What are you writing this time?”

“Just trying to get this idea out of my head.”

“Want me to go?”

“No—“ he said it a little too quickly, and looked up.

“Alright,” Laurens said softly, as if he were afraid of spooking him like an animal. He shrugged off his jacket. “I’ll stay.”

“It’s so hot,” Hamilton complained. “I can’t think.”

Laurens pulled off his shirt. “So stop. You can always use more parchment tomorrow.”

Hamilton eyed him with a mix of both interest and suspicion.

“What? I’ve only got one good summer uniform left and I don’t want to sweat all over it.”

“I’m running out of paper,” Hamilton said at last, sounding defeated.

“So use me.”

“What?”

“I’m serious.” He stretched dramatically. “Use me instead.”

“You want me to write—on your body?”

“It’s either that or you run out of paper.”

“Get over here.”

Laurens got up and stood by the desk. “So, do I—“

“Just hold still.”

Hamilton touched the tip of the quill to his skin, experimentally. A little pinprick of ink was all it took. Laurens held his head straight, his body taut, and Hamilton was inspired. Laurens’ chest was bare, a wide canvas, and Hamilton wanted to write an epic, a symphony, a declaration.

Hamilton had Laurens brace himself on the desk, and leaned over him, focusing. He wrote the first word slowly, trying to figure out at just what pressure to push the quill without getting the ink to bleed too much. Laurens shut his eyes. Hamilton wrote another word—and then another. Then, as so often was the case when Hamilton wrote, he got an idea. And then another. Laurens became paper on which another essay was written. Hamilton adapted to the hard lines of his body, the quill sped up, still with long strokes, still deliberate—but faster, and Laurens tipped his head back and Hamilton swore he could see the pulse of his heart in his throat begin to quicken. Laurens arched underneath him.

“Do you like that?”

“What do you think?”

Laurens was hard, the line of his cock clearly visible through the linen of his uniform, and a small wet spot highlighted the degree of his arousal. Hamilton pressed the tip of the quill a little harder, heard him moan, had to use his left hand to steady him so the words wouldn’t smear.

“I’m not done,” he said calmly.

Laurens let out a frustrated whine.

Hamilton ground his hips against him, and Laurens’ hips bucked when they touched. Hamilton flicked him with the feathered end of the quill.

“Stop that.”

Laurens growled.

“I mean it. I’m not done.”

“I’m about done.”

“Oh, are you?” Hamilton asked, and his left hand moved from John’s shoulder down to rub the wet spot on his breeches. “Can’t take a little—pressure?”

“Don’t be so condescending,” Laurens managed to get out, but his voice was strained and thin. His hips rocked against Hamilton’s hand in steady circles.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” he hissed. “Press harder.”

“With the quill, or my hand?”

Laurens tried to glare at him, but it took too much effort. “Quill,” he said softly.

Hamilton raised an eyebrow and smirked. “I didn’t think you’d like that so much.”

“Shut up.”

“I bet you couldn’t if you tried,” he said, grinning wider and redipping the quill.

“Alexander,” Laurens said, breathless, letters shifting as he strained his hips toward him.

“Hold still.” Hamilton pressed the point again to Laurens’ chest, where he wrote another three words— _impress upon me_ —with great flourish.

“Harder.”

“Still?”

“Or you can let me—“

“You can come right there, or not at all,” Hamilton said.

Laurens groaned. “Please, Alexander—“

Hamilton wrote the last word, pushing the quill over Laurens’ ribs so hard he was sure it would break the skin, his other hand pressing against Laurens’ cock, his own erection rubbing against his thigh, and he was _focused_ , determined, _insistent_ _,_ and Laurens was panting, his muscles tight and straining to hold still, to not make a sound.

He pulled the quill away with a rather cutting flick, and Laurens shuddered underneath him. Hamilton felt a rush of wet heat under his palm.

After a moment Laurens let out his breath in a hiss.

Hamilton grinned and kissed him on the cheek, an embarrassing gesture given the carnality of a moment before. “I think I’m done,” he said.

“You’re smiling like a cat.”

“I finally got to finish my thought,” Hamilton replied, tilting his chin up in defiance.

“Come here,” Laurens said brusquely, and he pulled Hamilton to him, kissed him hard and pressed their bodies together. Hamilton moaned softly, leaned into him for just a moment, and then pushed back.

“My shirt,” he exclaimed. He wasn’t wrong—it was smudged with dark ink.

“Shit,” Laurens said quickly. “I’m sorry—“

“Come on, let’s go down to the river. Maybe we can wash it out if we hurry.”

Laurens grimaced as he pulled his own shirt on. “I’m going to have to go in fully dressed if I’m going to get clean.”

“Can’t risk being found—all dirty, John.”

“Just get out,” Laurens replied.

 

The river was quiet, and they were alone on the bank.

“What did you write, anyway?”

“A declaration of claim over the territory.”

“You didn’t.”

Hamilton shrugged, taking his clothes from him as Laurens undressed on the river bank.

“That didn’t hurt?” he asked Laurens, eyeing the writing on his chest.

Laurens shrugged. “I liked it.” He waded into the river and began rubbing at the ink. It faded some, but remained blurred in dark patches.

“Shit,” Hamilton said aloud. He was attempting to wash their shirts at the water’s edge to no avail.

“So—we forgot how badly this kind of ink stains,” Laurens said calmly, but there was a note of annoyance in his voice.

“I’m sorry,” Hamilton said genuinely. “I really did forget.”

Laurens winced as his hand slid over the top-left of his ribs. “That’s going to leave a mark,” he said softly, looking at the red shadow on his chest where Hamilton had pressed the quill in especially deep.

“Should we take you to the medic?”

“Nah,” Laurens touched the spot gingerly. “We’ll just put some brandy on it when we get back to the cabin.” He glanced at the spot again. There, already carved into his skin, the ink did not smudge away. “I didn’t think the ink would stick.”

Hamilton tried not to smile. “You might end up with—what’s that word?—a tattoo.”

Laurens grimaced. “Not if I can help it. You didn’t use iron gall, did you?”

“Who can get iron gall? It’s walnut ink. You’re lucky it’s not iron gall,” he added, smirking. “That stuff’s so black it would show through your shirt.”

“Please.”

“At least it’s a proper word,” Hamilton mused, letting his eyes travel over Laurens’ body in no great hurry. “‘Freedom’ is pretty much the most appropriate word you could possibly get. At least it wasn’t something like ‘scoundrel’ or ’intercourse’—“

“You aren’t helping.”

 

***

 

"Raise a glass to freedom," Hamilton said to a chorus of agreement from the other officers. All except John, who glowered at him from across the campfire, and to whom Hamilton gave a little wink before drinking from his glass.

**Author's Note:**

> Another reason why John needed to ask for more summer uniforms.


End file.
